


you're a bad habit I can't shake

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Antagonism, Bad Decisions, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Fight Sex, M/M, Non-regulation uses of stun batons, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Threats of Violence, Verbal Humiliation, Weapons Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 22:26:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14066904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: Smart, safe choices have never been something Steve was good at - so why start now?





	you're a bad habit I can't shake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Impala_Chick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Chick/gifts).



Rumlow's jaw makes a sickening crunch as Steve's fist connects with it. Stumbling backwards, he bares his bloodied teeth into what serves as an approximation of a smile, altogether too pleased for a man who's getting the living shit kicked out of him. It's lopsided, wild and dangerous and a little mad, the ruined side of his face twisting grotesquely.

"That all you got, Rogers?" he taunts. 

Anyone else, Steve would think it's a show of bravado. Rumlow, though? He _means_ it. 

If Steve has learned anything over the years they've known each other – and oh, he's learned a lot, mostly things he wishes he'd never found out – it's that the traitorous bastard enjoys this kind of fight, enjoys the pain and the violence and the struggle. Enjoys it even more when it's Steve he's going up against, just like he did back in the day when he was still pretending to be a good guy and they were sparring down in the S.H.I.E.L.D. gyms, like he did during that ugly fight in the elevator, like he's done any of the other times their paths have crossed since.

It would probably be smart not to give Rumlow what he wants. Let Tony handle him, or Natasha. Someone for whom this ain't personal, who wouldn't let Rumlow get to them and respond like a Pavlovian dog to the taunts and jibes. 

But smart, safe choices have never been something Steve was good at, so why start now?

"You sure you can handle more, Rumlow? You're looking pretty tired."

As comebacks go, it's lacking wit and originality, but it works like a charm. Rumlow comes at him with renewed strength, matching him blow for blow, and that grin never wavers, not even when there's blood trailing down his chin or when Steve backs him into the warehouse wall and traps him in place with his forearm across Rumlow's throat.

They're both breathing heavily, and Rumlow's blood drips down on Steve's arm, bright red on the midnight blue of his uniform. Steve leans in a little harder, forcing Rumlow's head up, just because he can. It shouldn't feel as satisfying as it does, but the sense of victory doesn't last long.

It has to be difficult for Rumlow to breathe like this, and yet the raspy chuckle seems to come easily from his lips. "This is almost my favorite part, you know. When you finally stop acting like you're all pure as driven snow and are ready to get down and dirty."

Steve is tempted, oh so tempted, to put some extra pressure on the exposed throat if he wasn't worried that he might be proving Rumlow's point for him. Instead, he forces himself to ease up a little, his hand flexing emptily as he pulls back a fraction. "Pretty sure it doesn't make me less of a good guy just because I like beating up assholes like you."

"Yeah?" No one in Rumlow's position has the right to sound so goddamn mocking and cocky. "How 'bout if it makes your dick hard. Because I gotta say, Cap, I'm pretty sure that ain't a gun in your pocket." 

Mortification makes Steve tense, and he instinctively pulls back a fraction, putting a little distance between himself and Rumlow. Just a few inches of space, but enough for Rumlow to gain room to maneuver. A rookie mistake that Steve should know better than to make, and he gets his comeuppance right away: pain explodes in his left side, from his midriff up to his shoulder and down to his toes, an electrical jolt strong enough to make him crumple. 

His legs give out from under him, his vision whites out and he goes down, down, down. 

The next thing he knows, Rumlow is standing above him, holding that damn stun baton and watching him with a detached kind of cruelty Steve would find chilling if it wasn't such a familiar sight. 

"Yo, Cap. You still with me?"

His foot nudges against Steve's ribcage, finding the exact same spot where he just delivered the shock. Steve grinds his teeth to keep himself from making a noise. He's not gonna give Rumlow the satisfaction. 

"Go to hell," he forces out through the pain, and he tries to ignore the fact that his erection hasn't waned. Maybe Rumlow isn't the only one who enjoys their clashes a little too much. 

It's almost as if Rumlow can read Steve's thoughts. "You know what? Maybe I will. But you'll be right there with me," he taunts, and the grin he levels at Steve is nasty and sinister and goes straight to Steve's cock.

He lets the stun baton trail across Steve's torso, from his belt over the star on his chest right up to his throat. The metal tip dips into the tender hollow and rests there, not pushing down, not hard enough to hurt, but the threat is implied. Steve swallows convulsively against the weight, feeling the baton move along with it.

Rumlow's eyes are dark and hungry, roaming over Steve's stretched-out body with intent. "Jesus, Rogers, you should see yourself. You make me want to ruin you," he rasps, digging the baton in a little.

His finger rests alongside the switch, and Steve can already taste the phantom jolt of pain rushing through his throat. It never comes, though. Rumlow lets the baton linger for a long moment before drawing it back down the way it came, scraping across the sturdy material of Steve's suit so lightly that it's almost a caress. It taps against the belt buckle once, twice, before moving on, and Steve's breath hitches when it comes to stop right where his cock strains against his uniform pants. 

Rumlow licks the blood off his lips. "I can't make up my mind if I wanna turn this thing on and watch you blow your load in your suit or if I'd rather have you naked with your ass in the air begging for my cock."

Neither of the scenarios should be appealing at all, but Steve has passed by 'should' a long time ago. 

His smile bares his teeth. "Well, I guess at least with the stunner you know what to do with it."

"Just for that, Cap, I oughta fuck you with the baton."

Jesus. Steve has to close his eyes for a second and take a deep breath, his cock twitching and his hole clenching emptily as his imagination goes into overdrive. He can almost feel it: the rough, unforgiving edges of the baton pushing into him, Rumlow's gravelly voice providing a running commentary. What would it feel like to be shocked from the inside, he wonders, to have the electricity hit him right when he's about to come? He knows his body can sustain – has sustained – worse, but there's the kind of pain that spurs him on and there's the kind of pain he grits his teeth and endures, and the line between them is very thin. 

The baton is still pressing down against Steve's cock. When he opens his eyes and looks at Rumlow, the speculative expression on the other man's face makes him swallow hard. It takes more willpower than it should not to egg him on.

"Like you're not way too desperate to get your dick wet," he says instead. 

Despite the scar tissue obstructing Rumlow's expression, the flat, amused look he levels at him says that Rumlow knows exactly what Steve is doing.

"One of us is desperate, alright." The baton pulls back, and Steve tells himself he doesn't miss the pressure against his groin and the threat it implied. Rumlow taps it against his left hip. "Hands and knees. Come on, you know how it goes."

He stands back as Steve rises up, but not far enough that Steve couldn't kick his legs out from underneath him, send him sprawling down and regain the upper hand. He thinks about it for a moment, thinks about how easy it would be. But he's still so hard it aches, and his mind has blanked out to that sweet floatiness where for once it doesn't feel like the weight of the entire world rests on his shoulders. He'll go back to carrying it soon enough, once he picks up his shield and straightens his spine and finds the resolve to be Captain America again, national symbol and stalwart hero. Until then, the fight can wait. Just for a little while. 

Steve's body protests against the stretch as he turns so he's on all fours, facing away from Rumlow. He tries to relax his shoulders, but it's hard when he's strung tight like a garrote wire. He figures his chances of getting stabbed in the back are only slightly lower than getting fucked, and it shouldn't be worth the risk. It shouldn't.

He lowers his head and closes his eyes, listening to Rumlow moving behind him to try and anticipate which way this'll turn. Still, he jumps when he feels hands on his hips, sliding around to the front to undo his belt. Rumlow's chuckle is closer to his ear than he expected, breath fanning hotly across Steve's neck. "I knew you were gagging for it, Cap. Look at you, waiting for anything I give you. You don't even care if it's a good dickin' or a knife between the ribs, do you?" 

There's no good response to Rumlow's jeer, not when he's right, so Steve bows his head and bites his tongue.

When Rumlow finally succeeds in working Steve's pants open, he reaches inside to close a firm hand around Steve's cock. His grip is just this side of too tight, but the smooth, worn leather of his glove feels exquisite against the oversensitive skin. 

"So damn eager," he mutters, and yeah, he's right, but that doesn't mean that Steve will just let him get away with this shit. 

He arches backwards and pushes his half-uncovered ass against Rumlow's groin, grinding against it until he feels Rumlow's hard dick twitch and a low groan is wrenched loose from Rumlow's throat. 

"Wanna talk about _eager_ , Brock?"

In response, Rumlow's grip around Steve's cock goes from firm to punishing, which is as good an admission as any. Still, Steve pushes back one more time, for good measure, because he's never known when to stop. 

Rumlow's hands come to rest on his hips again, holding him in place. "You know what? Let's call it a draw."

He pulls Steve's uniform pants down until they bundle around Steve's knees. The air is stale and heavy, but still cool enough to send a shiver through Steve when it hits his exposed skin. The warm, steadying weight of Rumlow's hands is gone. There's a rustle behind him, leather and clothes and metal moving together, followed by a quiet, barely audible sigh. 

When Steve turns his head and looks over his shoulder, Rumlow is kneeling behind him with his cock out and his hand wrapped around the base. He's still wearing the familiar black armor and the gloves, fully dressed except for where his pants gape open. He's giving himself a few lazy strokes, the red, moist cockhead disappearing into that large, leather-clad fist, and Steve's mouth goes dry at the sight, the force of his desire hitting him like a punch to the sternum.

Rumlow catches his gaze, lips curling in what could be a taunt or a smile – Steve can't tell and doesn't care. He half expects another smart-ass remark, but it doesn't come. Maybe by now, even Rumlow's got tired of talking.

Letting go of his cock, Rumlow spits into his hand before reaching down, and Steve has the presence of mind to turn back around, facing forward again just in time before a thick finger breaches him with relentless insistence. It's too dry and too fast, the burn agonizing and uncomfortable and so fucking good. Steve is glad that Rumlow doesn't get to see his expression, that he can hide his face in his arms and keep that moment of pain and pleasure fading into each other to himself.

He bites his lip to keep himself from making noises as the finger retreats and pushes in, again and again. But then, just when Steve thought he's got used to it, Rumlow curls the fingers inside of him, scraping along his prostate, and he can't stop that damn sound from escaping his mouth: halfway between a sob and a moan, needy and desperate and raw. 

Rumlow's quiet, triumphant chuckle makes the heat rise to Steve's cheeks, but there's no time for embarrassment as the blunt, thick head of Rumlow's cock replaces his finger and thrusts forward. Rumlow doesn't give Steve time to adjust to the girth, forcing his way inside inch by torturous inch until it feels like every part of Steve is on fire and he can't tell anymore if it hurts or feels good. His cock is throbbing between his thighs, begging for attention even if Steve won't give Rumlow the satisfaction of voicing his need.

And perhaps Rumlow is having a kind moment – or, more likely, he figures it's a new way to torture Steve – because he reaches around and starts to jerk Steve off in time with his thrusts. He sets a steady, punishing rhythm that drives the air out of Steve's lungs, while the leather rubbing against Steve's cock, smooth and skin-warm and slick with precum, adds to the onslaught of sensations. 

It all melts together in a rush of heat and friction, discomfort bordering on pain and mind-numbing pleasure, animosity and grudging desire. 

It builds and builds and builds; it's too much at once and not quite enough – until, at last, it _is_ , and Steve spills all over Rumlow's hand. It's the kind of orgasm that hits like a derailing train – too intense for a moment that doesn't last, leaving you hollow and queasy with no sweet afterglow to ride out. 

Steve idly thinks that he probably stained the gloves beyond repair, that Rumlow will never be able to wear them again and not remember this moment. He likes the idea. 

Rumlow continues jackhammering into him, but now that Steve has come, the fizzle of pleasure dulling the razor edge of pain is gone. He's sore and his thighs strain; the rough material of Rumlow's pants chafes Steve's skin and the belt buckle slaps against his ass. He's relieved when Rumlow's movements begin to stutter and lose their rhythm. One last harsh thrust and he comes with a grunt, holding Steve in place until he's done striping his insides. 

He pulls out, and Steve winces at the soreness that lingers. He allows himself a moment as Rumlow moves away, struggling to shake off the sense of disjointedness, the way reality seems to be all wrapped and not quite right, like one of those surreal paintings by Dalí that he could never decide whether to like or find disturbing. 

Footsteps shuffle behind him, and Steve jerks when he feels the cool kiss of metal in his neck. He thinks it's a gun at first before it moves down his spine and he recognizes the narrow edges of the stun baton. Goosebumps raise on his skin and he involuntarily arches his vertebrae as Rumlow trails the baton down Steve's back, slow and suggestive.

Rumlow whistles appreciatively. "They think you're so prim and proper, Cap. Squeaky clean with your stupid uniform and your shiny shield. If only they could see you now, all messed up and fucked out. I wish I could keep you like this forever."

He lets the baton dip between his ass cheeks, and Steve remembers the threat – or was it a promise? – from earlier. His spent dick gives a little twitch. _Not the time_ , Steve reminds himself, not without some regret.

He waits until Rumlow steps closer before delivering a swift kick against Rumlow's shin that sends the man to his knees with a surprised shout. Within less than a second, Steve is on his feet, his pants pulled up. He grabs the stun baton from where it had fallen when Rumlow went down. It bristles with electricity when Steve switches it on, angling it towards Rumlow to keep him in check.

"Son of a bitch," Rumlow swears under his breath. He rolls on his back and rubs his leg, sending Steve a look that's half-angry, half-appreciative. "Playing dirty now, Rogers? Gotta say, I'm a little turned on."

Steve snorts. "Like you could get it up again so quickly."

He leans down and rips Rumlow's front pocket open, taking out the flashdrive he'd come to retrieve. Such a small, inconspicuous thing, and yet so powerful, in the right – or wrong – hands. "I'm gonna be taking this. Tell whoever hired you to take it up with the Avengers if they want it."

"You're borrowing more trouble than you can chew, Cap. These people aren't joking around."

"And you think I am?"

Rumlow eyes the buzzing baton warily with speculation in his gaze, as if gauging his chances to overpower Steve. In turn, Steve revs it up to the highest setting, giving Rumlow a deadpan look. 

Rumlow shrugs. "Not the same thing. They want what's on this thing. By all means necessary."

It almost sounds like a warning. Steve frowns.

"You gonna be okay?" he asks, because he can't help it. He doesn't like Rumlow. The betrayal still smarts, even after all this time, and even though Rumlow is a free agent now, his former allegiance to Hydra is something Steve will never quite get over. But it doesn't mean he wants to throw him to the wolves, especially if Rumlow's clients are as bad news as he says they are.

Rumlow's eyes snap up to Steve's face, narrowing at whatever he sees there. Beneath the scar tissue, his jaw works, and his mouth draws into a thin, hard line. He slowly lifts his arm and shows Steve the finger. "Piss off, Rogers, before I get back up and kick your ass."

Steve's lips twitch. "I'd like to see you try."

He pockets the drive and turns to walk away, keeping the baton switched on and ready to use as he picks up his shield where it lies discarded in a corner of the room.

"See you next time," Rumlow calls after him when he's already at the exit.

Steve doesn't bother to acknowledge him or what he's implying, but he knows he'll be there. 

There's always a next time.

End.


End file.
